Flasks and Poison
by InsanicFanatic
Summary: Your name is ROXY LALONDE- oops, you threw up on the sink. You giggled and took another sip with bloodshot eyes. And you, are going to drink your sorrow away. /Will include slight Erixy and Gamxy before Janexy/
1. Flasks and Poison

**Flasks and Poison**

You were drunk. Again.

But really, you knew that you did it voluntarily—it was just your way of dealing about stuff you didn't want to or couldn't handle. Some people did drugs, some would smoke, and you would, every single time, scramble for your favourite flasks and drink until you couldn't even walk straight without bumping into someone or something.

It was just a sort of relief. Or was it relieving? Relievance? The word? You can't even remember proper English anymore; your head was fuzzy from all the alcohol.

You giggle, just a bit, slightly, bitterly, and then proceeded to stare at your own reflection in the mirror—You laughed. So this was what you looked like when you were drunk? You looked so oddly funny that it almost became a sad sight; your hair stuck out in odd directions, the soot black lipstick you usually wore had smeared off in the middle, your originally pale lips showing through it—and your eyes, oh, your eyes! Soul-less, bitter, unforgiving, lifeless, mean, sad, broken—good, good! You giggle, yet again, laughing at your own sorry self whilst downing the entire drink in one; might as well black out when you're already partially unconscious.

Oh well. Who knows if it was poison in the flask or alcohol?

-.-.-.-

You woke up again with a burning headache—the groans emitted from your mouth didn't help lighten the situation. Your head was thumping, thumping, much like a disco party, only without the pleasantness. You reach over weakly to your closet; you always keep a few extras of painkillers in case you'd forgotten to bring some. You drowsily reach for a glass of water (which you nearly spilt onto the nearby stove) and pop more of those pills down your throat than you should take, assuming that the effect would be better.

You sigh. Was this what it was like to be sober?

You'd been drinking for so long that you couldn't even remember the last time you'd stopped—alcohol was your weakness, yet you also needed it to stay sane. Some say drinking is no different than consuming poison, and frankly, poison must have been quite addicting to you in the past decade or more.

Being sober, you realized, had made you feel nauseous.

It wasn't your fault that you were born worshipping Dionysus, the Greek wine god.

Drinking was just a religion to you. Healthy if you kept doing it.

-.-.-.-

Rose was complaining about you again. You didn't hear her say it to your face, but she muttered under her breath whenever you passed her. She loved you, yes, as a family should be, but your habit of drinking has made her more annoyed than she'd been lately. You didn't bother telling her why though; smart little thing knew that you needed it. She was just…annoyed. Annoyed, that's all.

You felt sorry about behaving so badly to Rose, in reality; if you hadn't been drinking your brains out, you could have actually taken the time to talk to her—but no, you were too busy 'noticing your own faults'. You couldn't help it that once you were sober, your head was actually no clearer than it had been when you were drunk; you didn't want to talk to her when you were significantly moody (which was always when you were sober). The important thing was that Rose understood, and that was all you needed to know.

Drinking made you feel giddy, usually; your happy, silly self came from the mix of different martinis and vodka. Drinking from a flask was different—you only resorted to it when you felt bitter and horribly sick, and drinking from it meant that you'd wanted to make it worse. Rose kept trying to hide the numerous flasks away, but you could always find them easily.

There was no cure.

At least, not to you.

-.-.-.-

You'd asked the ALPHA team to help you of course, but the results were unsatisfactory.

Dirk was fairly neutral about your habit, actually. Jane had gotten tired of trying to tell you to stop, and Jake was just as obsessed with skulls and guns as you were with alcohol. In fact, most of the time, they didn't really try to intervene with your personal life—they just had a habit of dealing with stuff on their own. Dirk had become a professional beatboxer, Jane had her own cooking show, and Jake…let's just say he works in a bar and he's happy about it.

And you? Well, that's hard to say.

None of the BETA kids really cared either. Well, Rose did, but she'd rather hide in her room reading that Grimoire book of hers than try to help you stop drinking. Oh well. They were sweet children, and you didn't want to bother them with your own mishaps. They'd thought you were kind and giggly, anyway, like a bit of an airhead. No one really bothered to ask about how you felt usually; they'd just assumed, in one way or another, which was in no way wrong—but sometimes you just wished that someone asked, and really cared.

Maybe if you found someone to engage in a relationship with, it would work. After all, you had to admit that you did look quite attractive to most people; natural blondes appeal to men more often than bleached blondes, you think. You're not quite sure, but you throw on a dress and go anyway, not before leaving a small note to tell Rose where you were going.

If you couldn't try it once, then what would you know?

A.N. This is a series I will continue soon. Please don't hesitate to ask me about anything!


	2. Martinis and Addictionn

**Martinis and Addiction**

The first man you had caught in your arms was a rather quiet boy; you knew that he was no older than 19, just at first glance, but that wasn't all. He was bisexual, of course, swinging slightly more on the homo side, but you didn't care. You liked him, and he liked you, and as much as his dyed violet hair was concerned, it wasn't a strong feeling for each other, so you ended up calling him as a sort of 'friend with benefits', and that was solely it.

He was beautiful, you were unsure, and the moment your fuchsia-lavender eyes met his own striking violet ones, you had both made your ways to each other, bumping shyly and occasionally grinding, making sure that it wasn't an awkward greeting—until he pulled his head back and cupped your face into his impossibly porcelain-white hands, and softly leaned forward to press his petal-soft lips to yours, slowly swaying to the beat and blushing, just a little bit, and you had a feeling that you just might be in love.

Of course, that wasn't at all true—Eridan (he'd told you his name after kissing the tip of your fingers) was, albeit romantic in a shy sort of sense, also kind of wacky and held a certain air of douchebaggery and sombreness to his quaint self. It might have been asking too much, but you liked to think that you could deserve much more.

'Roxy…..Roxy Lalonde, a'? A beautiful name, just like the color itself…' he'd murmured in your ear softly but clearly, tucking a loose strand of your blonde hair behind your ear.

Of course, good things never lasted long for you.

There was a sudden crash, and you both turned around to see what it was. A young, skinny man stood there, hands covered in shards, his fists clenching and unclenching; the glass punch bowl lay shattered on the expensive carpet, his mismatched eyes staring at you and him—mostly him, though, and almost instantly you caught the hint of what was going on.

You excused yourself from Eridan, saying that you were going to go for a bathroom break. You hurried to the nearest one, ignoring a couple making out in one of the cubicles (ugh, inconsiderate much) and leaned your head against the wall.

God, you weren't drunk enough for this drama yet.

/A.N.: I'm so very sorry for being so late and updating much less than before- the thing is, I have exams coming up very soon, so I have to devote all my time to my studies (the pain of being a middle schooler) Anyway, thank you so much for taking your time to read my stuff, and have a nice day- or night depending on when you're reading this./


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